The 2015 Australian Open concluded in a manner that proved satisfying even as it felt inevitable: Fabio Fognini and Simone Bolelli claimed their maiden Slam doubles title, just as we all predicted they would. More surprisingly, the singles title was won by world number one and strong pre-tournament favourite Novak Djokovic, who contrived victory despite rubbery thighs, a mangled thumb, some kind of virus, his coach, and an overwhelmingly strong record against all of his opponents. It is the Serb’s fifth Australian Open title, a record for the Open Era. Bolelli and Fognini meanwhile are the first Italian male pair to win any Major since 1959. They immediately announced their ambition to attend the World Tour Finals in November, Fognini being a long-term commitment kind of guy.

Until he lost, and even for a while afterwards, Nick Kyrgios was the talk of the tournament. He eventually fell to Andy Murray in the quarterfinals. Bernard Tomic meanwhile lost a whole round earlier to Tomas Berdych, and wasn’t the talk of the tournament. No one thought to mention how their results would likely have been reversed had they swapped draws. What if Tomic had faced Andreas Seppi in the fourth round, instead of Berdych? What if Kyrgios had faced Philipp Kohlschreiber near his best in the second round, instead of Ivo Karlovic at his worst? There’s little point in dwelling on what might have been, but we shouldn’t forget that luck plays its part, especially when determining which player enjoys the warm glow of the nation’s affection.

Australia’s most popular media outlets only encourage this seasonal lunacy. They’d already accelerated to a patriotic gallop when James Duckworth beat Gilles Simon in Brisbane – imagine CBS going bananas at Jock Sock winning a round in Winston-Salem – and the pace barely slackened until Kyrgios left Melbourne. It helped that for once there was plenty to celebrate: of the 128 singles players who passed the first round at the Open, eleven of them boasted little Australian flags next to their name, a flowering of home-grown and imported talent that was commemorated with typical reticence on the front pages of the local tabloids. It even prompted Channel 7 to work some tennis into promos for their nightly news bulletin, which are otherwise compiled from whatever grainy footage of urban violence they’ve scrounged up that day (a habit noted by visiting athletes).

For Channel 7, any Australians lingering deep into the tournament provide a ratings boost not only for the duration of the event itself, but for the remainder of the year: the longer the locals endure, the higher the number of viewers exposed to relentless promos for their upcoming suite of unmissable shows. Prominent among these is the ridiculous My Kitchen Rules, a reality cooking show that invites us to worry on behalf of the kinds of people who’ve pinned their hopes on winning a reality cooking show: “We need this … cos of our dreams,” sobs one contestant, meaning it. Another contestant can apparently speak to turkeys. Then there’s the unending Home and Away, set in an idyllic beachside hamlet whose population has remained constant for decades, despite a ceaselessly regenerating cast of attractive youths. According to the ads, a bus rolls over in the new season, though sadly only one of the attractive youths is on board. “I won’t lose another brother,” sobs another attractive youth. He’s either related to the dude on the bus, or just very absent-minded.

Channel 7 owes is current domination of the Australian ratings in large part to Lleyton Hewitt, whose run to the 2005 AO final enabled the host broadcaster to plug its new programmes for a whole extra week. They’ve repaid Hewitt by guaranteeing him a job for life. He announced that next year’s Open, his twentieth, will be his last, which means he’ll now join the commentary team one or two rounds earlier. It’s a good thing he’s not half bad. Speaking of commentary…

As unkind as I am about Channel 7, the parts of the tennis coverage not devoted to commercials and sundry self-congratulation actually showed an improvement over previous years. For one thing there was the new 7Sport app (and website), which allowed users to watch any of the dozen or so televised courts, several of which had commentary. The exposure this gave to players toiling on outside courts shouldn’t be underestimated: for a time 7Sport was the most downloaded app from the iTunes store, and one imagines that at least proportion of users showed some curiosity about the action occurring away from the main stage.

For another thing, hosting duties have passed to the capable Hamish McLachlan, whom Australian viewers might otherwise know as the host of AFL Game Day. As the designated network guy, McLachlan combines an easy-going levity with an obvious passion for tennis and wide range of cultural reference. Of course, next to most of the commentary team just about anyone would sound like Stephen Fry. Rennae Stubbs at one point declared: ‘That was the very thought I was thinking.’ During Kei Nishikori’s second round match McLachlan pointed out to John Fitzgerald that professional tennis is a meritocracy. Fitzy’s first response was panicked dead air, soon followed by the admission that he didn’t know what meritocracy meant. McLachlan helpfully explained how it differs from aristocracy. Even then, Fitzgerald could contribute little, since he so obviously only watches tennis a few times a year.

Whatever he does with the rest of his time, it isn’t reading. During a subsequent match it was Milos Raonic’s forehand that transported him to allusive heights: “That’s not a velvet sledgehammer. That’s a regular sledgehammer!”

“Yeah, one that’s gonna knock you out!” chimed in booth-mate Peter Lonergan, doing his part to drain the cliché of its already meagre nuance.

“He’s really started going for a broke a little bit,” added Fitzy, just warming up.

Australian commentators love the phrase ‘a little bit’, which no doubt originated as a species of wry understatement, but has since evolved away from irony. Now it’s just a verbal tic, acquired through imitation and ingrained through repetition. (We can trace its origins back to cricket commentary, where, say, a Wasim Akram delivery that swung four feet to take out leg stump might indicate ‘a little bit’ of movement. A fifth-day Test wicket resembling a drought-fissured riverbed would show evidence of ‘a little bit’ of cracking. Thus it is that a tennis player trailing by two sets and a couple of breaks can be in ‘a little bit’ of trouble.)

All the available evidence is that Lleyton Hewitt is largely immune to irony, even in diluted form. As a player and a commentator, understatement is a foreign concept. Viewers of Channel 7’s Australian Open coverage – and long-term readers of these pages – are doubtless aware of Hewitt’s fondness for the terms ‘extremely well’ and ‘tremendous’ (the latter often describing the act of ‘ball-striking’). His passion for these terms hasn’t slackened, and has lately been heavily augmented by the word ‘massive’. He uses ‘massive’ in the figurative sense of ‘very large’, not the literal sense of ‘having mass’. (Apparently we don’t have enough synonyms for ‘very large’.) We’re often told that Hewitt is a role model for the next generation of Australian players, and it seems his example extends even to vocabulary: Kyrgios is also a devotee of ‘massive’. By the final, even Jim Courier was a convert:

“How big would you say this game is, Lleyton?”

“Oh, massive.”

“Yeah, me too. Massive.”

Given that Hewitt is still (nominally) an active tour player, it is understandable that he is less critical in his commentary than some of the retired pros. Refreshing though it might prove, it probably wouldn’t do to have him excoriate his peers on air. Something like that would surely get back to the locker-room. However, while his continuing role as a tour professional precludes him from being completely candid – even about Chela and Nalbandian he would go no further than to say he never practiced with them; a rare example of wry understatement – it also provides him with his most interesting material. At his best Hewitt offers insights available nowhere else. When he first began commentating for Channel 7 a few years ago he came toting a duffel bag of fresh anecdotes. Did you know that Nadal is as competitive on the golf course as on the tennis court? Or that Ferrer was once too shy to ask Hewitt for his autograph?

Although the duffel bag has lately seemed a little depleted, there is still the occasional trinket. During the first of the men’s semifinals Hewitt remarked that during the IPTL he shared a team with both Tomas Berdych and Andre Agassi. He related that one day during practice Agassi took the Czech aside, though not so aside that Hewitt couldn’t overhear, and told him that his second serve simply wasn’t good enough, and that it was this shot that had thus far stopped him from breaking through for a Major. It’s this kind of material that might dry up once Hewitt is no longer in the thick of the action.

McLachlan’s elevation to the role of host freed Bruce McAveny for other duties. These commenced disastrously at the draw ceremony – Li Na clearly found him baffling, and seemed determined to be as difficult as possible – and continued through a fortnight of matches on Rod Laver Arena. Bruce has always had a passion for statistics, and in his prime would make sure use of them in rendering the onscreen action comprehensible for viewers. The relevance of statistics generally lies in the connections they establish. Bruce hasn’t lost the ability to form those connections – he has lost the ability to stop making them. Consequently he has gained the fatal habit of rambling on at least one clause too far. After Murray and Berdych fought out a 76 minute opening set, McAveny reminded us that Grigor Dimitrov had beaten Dustin Brown in 69 minutes in the opening round, which was fine, until: “And of course Murray beat Dimitrov in the fourth round here.” In isolation it doesn’t seem like much, but it happened nearly every time he spoke: another tiny plank of irrelevance in a groaning structure of aimless erudition.

For certain aspects of sports coverage to be sponsored is nothing new, though lately the practice has expanded into near ubiquity. Little occurs on court without a third-party corporation attaching their name to it, with the lurking implication being that these things wouldn’t happen but for the generosity of these companies. The Australian Open ballkids were thus the ‘Woolworths’ ballkids. Medical timeouts were ‘Voltaren Injury Breaks’. The on-court interview was recast as the ANZ Open Mic. It went on and on. At one point McAveny interrupted an aerial shot of the Woolworths ballkid delivering a towel to a player – himself festooned with logos – during a Voltaren Injury Break: “So let’s leave the APT Spidercam to look at the Bunnings second set highlights.”

ESPN already has the finest tennis commentator in the world in Darren Cahill, and did itself more favours by enlisting Jason Goodall to provide expert analysis in a series of segments that invariably yielded real insight. Channel 7 had similar segments: called ‘Back to School’, they were sponsored by Office Works, hosted by Roger Rasheed, and were generally worthless.

The real shame was that they needn’t have been. Ideally Geoff Masters would have hosted them. Masters is affable, well-spoken and boasts an intimate knowledge of the game stretching back decades. (7’s best commentary of the summer came when Masters and McLachlan paired up for a match in Brisbane, though there was one clanger when Masters remarked of one player that a transition game “wasn’t in his tennis DNA … at least not yet.”) Instead we got Rasheed in a tight polo-neck, whose every utterance sounds like a fridge magnet devised by a My Kitchen Rules contestant. Before the quarterfinals he explained that for Djokovic to win, the Serb “mentally just has to be so strong in his mind”. That was the very thought I was thinking.

Nick Kyrgios has reached the quarterfinals of the 2015 Australian Open, recovering from two sets down to defeat Andreas Seppi, in much the same way Roger Federer didn’t two days earlier. It is the first time a local has reached this stage of their home Slam since Jelena Dokic managed it in 2009, and the first time a male player has done it since Lleyton Hewitt in 2005. For those viewers whose passion for the sport extends only to those men and women with little Australian flags next to their names, it is a rare chance to keep watching past Sunday. It is a long time since the Fanatics have had to find tickets for the second week. Some years even tickets to the second round are a gamble.

Kyrgios is also the first teenager to reach multiple Major quarterfinals since Federer in 2001, which is an even bigger achievement considering that outside of Grand Slams and Davis Cup he has so far recorded precisely one tour-level victory. That may conceivably change, but for now it is safe to say Kyrgios is built for big moments on big stages. The backhand winner up the line with which he sealed the fourth set tiebreak testified to that.

The way he kept barking ‘Towel, Bro!’ at the ball-kids suggests that his on-court manner needs further work, whatever you think of the rest of his behaviour. Of course, having reached the quarterfinals elevates him virtually above media reproach. Given the ratings-boost Channel 7 enjoys whenever Australians go deep, just about anything short of a baby-punching spree can be passed off as youthful joie de vivre, unless you’re Bernard Tomic.

Fourth Round: (7) Berdych d. Tomic, 6/2 7/6 6/2

Tomic, you may recall, ‘wasted the nation’s goodwill’, and is thus one transgression away from deportation. He had also progressed to the fourth round, but was unlucky to encounter in Tomas Berdych an opponent even more ferocious than Seppi. Had it been otherwise, Tomic may well have progressed instead. As it was, his fourth round provided a succinct demonstration of what happens when a top player encounters a sophisticated game built on guile, placement and subtle variations of pace and torque. The top player just shrugs and hits right through it.

Tomic sometimes looks like a throwback to an earlier era, and proves that there are plenty of good reasons why those kinds of players aren’t competitive these days. The frustrating thing is that Tomic doesn’t necessary have to play like that. Against Philipp Kohlschreiber in the second round he stepped in, controlled the baseline, and blasted winners with his weird forehand. Still, fourth round was a good result.

Third Round: Seppi d. (2) Federer, 6/4 7/6 4/6 7/6

Shock of the week was undoubtedly Seppi’s four set upset of Federer, who’d numbered among the tournament favourites. It was Federer’s first exit before the semifinal stage of this tournament in over a decade. It’s hardly news that good players have bad days. What was surprising was the discovery that even great players in otherwise excellent form can have days that manage to be bad in nearly every direction at once.

In the normal course of events, Federer is significantly better at Seppi at every aspect of the sport – movement, serve, return, groundstrokes, net-play, twin-fathering – which explains how he compiled a record of ten wins against the Italian for the loss of just one set. Yesterday, however, Federer was markedly worse than Seppi in just about every conceivable way. His first serve was more potent, naturally, yet his returning was such that Seppi’s modest delivery looked like Raonic’s, a musket effectively doing the job of a howitzer.

Seppi’s lunging squash-like forehand pass on match point is the shot fated to make the highlight reels, but it wasn’t indicative of the match (especially since Federer played a strong, decisive point). A far more indicative shot was the high floating backhand with which Seppi took the second set tiebreaker: instead of executing an easy volley into the open court, Federer left the ball, and looked unimpressed when it dropped onto the line. For the most part Seppi was solid, happily pushed the number two seed around while playing well within himself, and remained unflappable where so often before he has flapped. Federer afterwards offered no excuses beyond the concession that sometimes you just have a bad day. As for Seppi, he has probably played better in previous losses, but you can only take the chances you’re presented with – many don’t – and it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

Second Round: (3) Nadal d. (Q) Smyczek, 6/2 3/6 6/7 6/3 7/5

Rafael Nadal’s bad day occurred two days earlier, at night, when a laughably kind second round against American qualifier Tim Smyczek threatened to turn nasty. Those who’d feared this match was a virtual walkover were duly reminded that Nadal has lately struggled against players ranked outside the top hundred. Apparently his troubles are such that he’s now sick of the very sight of them. He was fine for a set, but thereafter began to experience acute discomfort: nausea, dizziness, bewilderment, Weltschmerz; the whole shebang. Smyczek valiantly seized his opportunity, darting to a two sets to one lead while Nadal was doubled over groaning.

Whatever treatment the Spaniard received began slowly to take effect by the fourth set, whilst Smyczek, like Wawrinka in last year’s final, succumbed to the strange terror that often comes when facing a disabled opponent. He suddenly couldn’t hit the ball away from Nadal. Nadal felt no such compunction, and took the fourth. Smyczek regathered in the fifth, and they traded holds until 5/5, when Nadal broke. He then held for victory, having ‘found a way’. (You could fashion a drinking game around Nadal’s matches and the phrase ‘found a way’: one shot of whisky ever time it is uttered in commentary or on social media, and you too would be doubled over groaning in no time.)

Much was subsequently made of Smyczek’s sporting gesture late in the fifth set, when he instructed the umpire to give Nadal another first serve after the previous one was marred by a shout from the crowd. It was pretty classy, and Nadal afterwards couldn’t say enough kind things. It would be nice to live in a world in which such gestures were commonplace. Alas, common courtesy isn’t, and Smyczek is a rare gentleman, which he further proved in his post-match interview.

Nadal’s reward for surviving the diminutive world No.112 was a third round date with the even smaller world No.106 Dudi Sela, whom he found a way past whilst shedding only six games. His fourth round opponent Kevin Anderson was ranked about 90 places higher, and for ten and a half games played like it. Alas in the eleventh game Anderson gained no fewer than five break points on Nadal’s serve. Failing to convert these sent him into a black funk from which he emerged an hour later to discover Nadal was up two sets and break. Nadal’s water bottles blew over at one point, providing momentary interest. He’ll face Berdych in the quarterfinals, against whom he hasn’t lost in nine years, a period that includes seventeen straight wins for the Spaniard.

Fourth Round: (6) Murray d. (10) Dimitrov, 6/4 6/7 6/3 7/5

Kyrgios’ opponent will be Andy Murray, who until the fourth round had travelled so far under the radar as to be undetectable, especially if you’ve been searching on Rod Laver Arena. That said, none of his matches had merited centre court billing, and he was drawn in the same half as Federer, Nadal and most of the Australian men. His fourth round against Grigor Dimitrov deserved a bigger court, however, and through four sets both men ably demonstrated why.

Even as Kyrgios was being canonised by the Hisense burghers, Murray and Dimitrov were assembling a highlights reel in real-time. Momentum careened about until the very end. The Bulgarian served to send the match into a fifth set – Kyrgios is an expert at the mechanics at play here – but comprehensively stuffed it up, and never recovered. Murray broke and again and served it out, whereupon he was punished with an interview with Hamish McLachlan.

Notwithstanding his second serve, which looks more meek than ever, he is otherwise showing the sceptics that great form in lead-up exhibition events can actually be translated into great form in a meaningful tournament. If he gets through Kyrgios – one imagines he will – he’ll probably have another opportunity to prove it against Nadal.

The early rounds of last year’s Australian Open were mainly notable for the apocalyptic heat, the main results of which were the emergence of a lot of self-proclaimed experts on elite athlete physiology, very few actual retirements, and the cancellation of plans to relocate the event to the high plains of Africa, where our distant ancestors once played tennis. Pundits suddenly knew all there was to know about the Wet Bulb Globe Temperature index (WBGT), and declared it inadequate, since the weather really was actually very hot. (The WBGT index has since been revised, such that its readings can be ignored if enough journalists complain about it, Maria Sharapova takes to Twitter or Ivan Dodig collapses.)

This year’s event sadly lacks such a unifying theme, unless one counts Nike’s attempt to clad all its contracted players in several shades of retina-searing Day-Glo. Roger Federer and Victoria Azarenka both turned up dressed as tennis balls. There’s a particularly ambitious pink and yellow ensemble favoured by many of the men. The real shame is that Fernando Verdasco, sponsored by Adidas, missed out. H&M has draped Tomas Berdych in delicate sea foam.

The marquee first round match, obvious the moment the draw was released, was between Juan Martin del Potro and Jerzy Janowicz. Due to chronic health concerns (del Potro – wrist; Janowicz – brain), neither man was seeded. Unfortunately the surgical steel and good wishes holding Delpo’s wrist together failed again, and he withdrew. Honours for most enticing first round thus fell to Grigor Dimitrov and Dustin Brown, assuming Brown could bring the notoriously cavalier attack that can trouble any top player. Alas, he instead brought the erratic mess that saw him lose in the first round of qualifying last year, and ensured he was the first player to exit this year’s main draw. Dimitrov, his countrymen exhorting him with ancient Bulgar war cries (‘Gri-gor Dim-i-trov!’), won in under seventy minutes.

Andreas Seppi and Denis Istomin were delivering a longer and more diverting spectacle on the remote Court 22, a match the Italian eventually took 6/4 in the fifth. Next door, Richard Gasquet was noticeably better than Carlos Berlocq in every aspect of the sport that counted, and won a very entertaining baseline duel in straight sets. Seeded only twenty-fourth this year, I suspect Gasquet will remain largely unnoticed until the fourth round, where he’ll doubtless provide a launching ramp for professional underdog Rafael Nadal.

Even before the official draw was released on Friday, Nadal was working to establish his credentials as a virtual non-starter, notwithstanding how suited the conditions are to his game, and that he typically reaches the final whenever he turns up. Since then he has availed himself of hourly press conferences in which to really drive the message home, lest his supporters harbour any hope that he might somehow prevail. His strenuous objections grew only more ridiculous given the superb thrashing he doled out to Mikhail Youzhny in their opening match. Afterwards, faced with a sceptical press corps, Nadal hired a skywriting plane and proclaimed his underdog status in hundred-foot letters high above Melbourne Park. Undeterred, the betting markets have installed him as third favourite, only slightly behind Federer, although I imagine that will change if they both reach the semifinals. (For his part, Federer appeared untroubled, and occasionally uninterested, against Yen-Hsun Lu.)

Bernard Tomic’s retirement against Nadal in the opening round of last year’s Australian Open was held to be an indictment against his character in those quarters of the Australian media that dare use the term ‘un-Australian’ with a straight face. The Herald Sun announced that Tomic had ‘at last wasted the nation’s goodwill.’ The lowly status to which he has sunk was made apparent by his relegation to Hisense Arena, now the event’s third court, and the fact that the camera pit was all but empty as he and Tobias Kamke got under way. Only the general public seemed still to hold Tomic in warm regard, in clear contravention of tabloid edict. Initially it was hard to see why, as the enterprising Kamke came within a point of establishing a 4/0 lead in the opening set.

I suspected even then that it was only a matter of time before Tomic dragged his opponent back down to a more governable level. Time here is the operative term; not merely operative but relativistic. Short of accelerating to the speed of light – notoriously hard to do – sitting through a Tomic match is the best way to experience temporal dilation. Spectators emerging from a Tomic match when he’s in an especially deflationary mood will find that those outside the stadium have aged at a different rate. For poor Kamke it was like trying to fight cosmic entropy.

The only force powerful enough to disrupt the Tomic Effect – although one must acknowledge Gilles Simon’s strong work in the field – are the Fanatics, that gaggle of vociferous Australian yahoos whose ability to find seats together impresses more than their attempts at close-harmony. Periodically, as I drifted off during a sequence of backhand slices only measurable in geological time-scales, I was jolted back by a rendition of ‘Walking in a Winter Wonderland’, with key words cunningly replaced by ‘Bernard Tomic’. The Fanatics’ vigour was admirable, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it rather ran counter to the mood Tomic was striving to create. Without them, Kamke might well have been submerged a set earlier.

I confess I didn’t stick around for the end, but took a slow turn through the grounds, where to my delight I discovered Philipp Kohlschreiber and Paul-Henri Mathieu about to kick off. The German hasn’t been in tremendous form of late, and it was so far turning out to be a dismal day for his compatriots – in addition to Brown and Kamke, Lisicki and Kerber had also fallen – but he set about his task of reviving national fortunes with his usual lack of caution, and an unusual lack of errors. He has never received much credit as the perennial flag bearer for German men’s tennis.

Witnessed from extreme close range, Kohlschreiber in full-flight is awesome to behold. Mathieu didn’t stand a chance. At one point he did stand on the baseline while serving, and was duly called for a foot-fault. On cue he launched in that classic aria ‘This is first time I’ve been foot-faulted in years’ – originally from Cosi fan tutti. Thus do they all. (Serena Williams famously performed a gangsta rap version at the US Open a few years ago). Mohamed Layhani was unmoved, though he did leap to Mathieu’s defence a game later when someone in the crowd abused the Frenchman. It was the closest I’ve ever seen Layhani come to anger, snarling ‘Show some respect!’ and staring the miscreant down between points. None of this helped Mathieu withstand Kohlschreiber’s relentless assault. The German meets Tomic next, a tougher test of his psychic reserves.

A cramping James Duckworth chose that moment to complete a remarkable five-set victory over Blaz Kavcic. Two years ago this pair fought out an equally memorable match in tougher conditions, with a different result. Last year Kavcic reached the third round, and will thus shed some points. Afterwards Duckworth kissed the court. Marinko Matosevic earlier recovered from a set down to record his maiden win at the Australian Open, a result he was clearly unprepared for given how he darted erratically about the court, bellowing self-congratulation into stray cameras. He doesn’t like people calling him ‘Mad Dog’, but gave them little reason not to.

There’s still a tendency for the Australian public to pair Thanasi Kokkinakis and Nick Kyrgios due to their Greek heritage and surnames beginning with the same letter, a tendency the player’s themselves do little to quash. The Australian media, gifted at devising nicknames, has dubbed them the Special K’s. By simultaneously battling through five set first rounds on Monday night they’ve given the public no reason to decouple them, nor any reason to think them less special. Still, if a point of differentiation were required, one need merely look at their respective post-match celebrations. Kokkinakis’s victory over Ernests Gulbis was a fraught and predictably weird encounter, lowlighted by the second set, when the Latvian admonished the crowd to ‘show some respect’ (echoing Layhani) on the way to being bagelled. Upon winning Kokkinakis immediately executed a complicated semi-backward roll with a kick, in that outfit the only breakdance move visible from space. Only then did he remember to shakes hands with his opponent and the umpire. Formalities dealt with, he embarked on a victory lap of Show Court 3, high-fiving the front row as he went.

By contrast, Kyrgios spent long portions of his match against Federico Delbonis excoriating himself, remonstrating with the umpire, destroying racquets, and glaring sullenly at overly rambunctious members of the crowd, whom I suppose weren’t showing enough respect. (perhaps the day did have a unifying theme). This vibe prevailed even after winning. His on-court interview was a masterpiece in surly awkwardness.

No one watching Channel 7’s coverage will have missed the fact that this is Lleyton Hewitt’s nineteenth Australian Open, though the significance of this number isn’t made clear. There are constant promos, and they periodically show a retrospective of the Our Lleyton’ career, including rare archival footage of his debut against Bill Tilden. His legendary status assured, we’re also led to believe that he is the driving inspiration for our aspiring youngsters. Discussing the admirable mental strength of Kyrgios and Kokkinakis, Roger Rasheed declared: ‘Where did they learn all that? Lleyton Hewitt.’ Hewitt celebrated the commencement of his nineteenth Australian Open by defeating Ze Zhang in four sets. It doesn’t seem like much, but it is only the third time he has managed to pass the first round since 2009. Under the adoring gaze of the Fanatics, he commenced his patented routine of ‘Vicht’ salutes and simulated lawn-mower ignition.

Gael Monfils had rather a tougher time against the much tougher Lucas Pouille, recovering from a two set hole and a break down in the fifth. Pouille, resplendent in Nike’s fluorescent green, fought admirably, but still has a lot to learn about being a French male tennis player. Fortunately he had an accomplished master up the other end. Monfils’s double-fault on his first match point was a lovely touch.

Alexandr Dolgopolov withdrew from the Kooyong exhibition final on the weekend with a bad knee, leaving him in doubt for the Open, and raising the hopes of one potential Lucky Loser. As it happened Dolgopolov did not withdraw, which left his opponent Paolo Lorenzi in the strange position being a favourite for the time in a Grand Slam. Sadly he lacked Nadal’s resources to deny this status. In any case it proved justified: the entirely uncompetitive Dolgopolov lost in straight sets. Depending on how you look at it, he thus cruelly denied a struggling journeyman $34,500, or gifted Lorenzi a much bigger one. I look at it the first way.

Marin Čilić has won the 2014 US Open, thus shortening by one entry the list of sentences I thought I’d never write. Precisely where it ranked on this list was difficult to ascertain, since it is both a long list and one that by definition isn’t written down. Perhaps it should be. I spent almost as long pondering this irony as it took for Čilić took to defeat Kei Nishikori in yesterday’s final, which wasn’t very long at all.

As Major finals go, it was a bit of a fizzer. One doubts whether that matters to Čilić, or indeed whether it matters all that much to anyone. The quality of the encounter is soon forgotten when history is being made. Čilić is the first Croatian man to win the US Open, defeating the first Japanese man to reach a Major final. It was the first Major that didn’t feature either Nike or adidas clothing since 2003, and the first that lacked any representatives from the current top three since the late Triassic period.

It was therefore a final that no one anticipated, neither before the tournament kicked off, nor even by the semifinals, which the tournament continues to schedule on the last Saturday, and persists in calling Super. With Rafael Nadal absent, it seemed certain that either Novak Djokovic or Roger Federer would claim the title, and probable that they’d face off for it on the third Monday. It was a prediction that saw some revision in Federer’s quarterfinal against Gael Monfils, as the Swiss first languished in a two set hole, then later faced a pair of match points. Having weathered those squalls, one confidently predicted smoother conditions ahead. Late-career Federer is all about the attack, and his semifinal opponent boasted nothing like Monfils’ defensive prowess.

There was similarly little chance that Nishikori would survive Djokovic’s untiring ministrations. The Japanese is prone to physical breakdown and defaults at the best of times, and these were hardly that. He’d arrived in New York with an injured foot, and was coming off consecutive five-set, four-hour-plus victories over Milos Raonic and Stan Wawrinka. A Djokovic – Federer final – eagerly desired by the tournament, the broadcasters and the vast majority of fans – appeared all but guaranteed. It was thus rather a shock when Djokovic and Federer contrived to win only one set between them.

I have seen Čilić play well before – doubtless we all have – but never quite like this, and never in a manner that suggested he could maintain it through the last three rounds of the most important tournament of his life. If anything, that was the standard word on Čilić: He might overpower lesser opponents for a time, but sooner rather than later his weaknesses would be exposed by top-class opposition. Those weaknesses, in no particular order, were inadequate movement, inconsistency from the ground, a serve that was underpowered given the altitude from which it arrived, a tendency to tighten up, and an insufficiently ruthless disposition. (Upon one occasion Čilić’s relatively placid nature served him well, when he was the last man unscathed after David Nalbandian displayed the wrong kind of killer instinct in the Queens final several years ago, gifting Čilić what was until yesterday his most prestigious title.)

Those weaknesses have been shored up. If I’d feared that Čilić’s movement would be exposed by Federer’s redoubled willingness to attack the net, I needn’t have. Čilić is still no Monfils, but this is mostly a good thing, and he was more than up to the task. The groundstrokes that cut through the wind against Berdych, cut right through Federer in the semifinal, and wrought similar damage on Nishikori in the final.

Federer had recovered from two sets down against Monfils, but despaired of doing so against the Croat, given he could barely land returns in the court. Čilić’s serve, by his own admission, was the key shot in the final, since it ensured the wind was only a problem for Nishikori. The mechanical improvement of this shot owes a great deal to his coach Goran Ivanisevic, whose own serve was famously monstrous. Indeed, even Čilić’s extravagant knee- and back-bend looks rather less comical when the delivery itself is so potent, reminding us Goran’s service motion looked pretty goofy too, unless you were facing it.

And when it comes to killer instincts, simply observe how unhindered Čilić looked when serving out sets (especially against Federer, where he barely conceded a point), or how focussed he was when breaking in each game in which he created an opportunity, invariably early in each set. What was so striking about Čilić’s mastery was how replicable it all looked. In winning his first Grand Slam title, he already looked like a multiple Grand Slam champion.

Of course, so had Richard Krajicek. Čilić now joins the special list of men who’ve won their first Major in their Major final, a list that features no shortage of champions who looked unbeatable for a couple of weeks, but only once. But even here it’s important to establish some differentiation. Čilić wasn’t fortunate to win this title, coasting like Stephen Bradbury through a collapsed draw while the favourites gagged, stumbled or simply fell in a heap. He tamed a tough draw – including a five setter against Gilles Simon at his irritatingly tenacious best – and elevated when it mattered. Čilić didn’t drop a set in the last three rounds.

Nishikori on the other hand dropped a handful of sets, though one cannot blame him for that. He was exceptional in reaching the final, but sadly wasn’t once he got there. The cornerstones of Nishikori’s game are quick hands, great movement and an attacking disposition. (He’s one of those rare metaphorical buildings with multiple cornerstones.) Commentators often term him a counter-puncher, based, one imagines, on his size and speed. But he is no more a counter-puncher than Nikolay Davydenko or Sebastien Grosjean, and like them he rarely hesitates to attack when the slightest opportunity arises. On certain days and one certain surfaces, a sustained flat-hitting assault can be hard to repel, even for the best defenders in the sport. But on other days the calibration is off, and it never quite works. Nishikori had one of those days on Monday. Nerves are a funny thing, unless, like Čilić’s serve, they’re happening to you in real time while millions of people watch.

Quick hands mean little if your legs don’t get you to the ball in good time. Nishikori’s legs looked leaden almost from the outset – a fatal combination of nerves and weariness. He created more chances as the match wore down, but it was too little and it was too late. Čilić steadied, and held, then held again. With a final fine backhand he won, and collapsed joyously onto his back. Everyone who’d ever wondered how Čilić would celebrate a Slam title now had their answer. He radiated the kind of joy that begs to be shared. Sixteen thousand kilometres away, I know I felt it. Everyone felt it.

Čilić thus moves beyond the niche notoriety of tennis fandom into the broader kind of fame by which even those only vaguely interested in tennis, such as John McEnroe, have heard of him. He’s done the rounds in New York, as all US Open champions are obliged to. He’ll soon do the same on a smaller though infinitely more rambunctious scale in Zagreb. If he wasn’t a big name in Croatia before, he certainly is now. (Nishikori’s name was already big in Japan, and by becoming the first Japanese name to reach a Major final it hasn’t shrunk.)

If anyone took Čilić lightly before, you can be certain they won’t now, though really I doubt whether anyone did take him lightly. It is unlikely that any top pro upon discovering the Croat as his next opponent put his feet up and gave his coach the day off. Really, Čilić has ensured that the media won’t take him lightly. Never again will he be permitted to slip through a draw beneath the radar, no matter how tightly he cleaves to the topography, or even burrows through it. He might not win another match between now and January, but you can bet Bruce McAveny will bury us beneath an avalanche of Čilić stats come the Australian Open.

But that’s a concern for another time. Unlike the Australian Open, the US Open has always been wholesomely free from Channel 7’s taint. From next year, it will be free from CBS’s taint, as well, which will permit a measure of sanity to be restored to the schedule. In the meantime, choice of broadcaster was a toss-up. Sky Sports was mostly a mess, alternating between a syndicated USO Live feed and the usual home-grown derangement whenever Andy Murray graced the court. Murray’s four-set loss to Djokovic was immediately declared the match of the tournament, although it certainly wasn’t. US Open Radio was as ever the worst of the online radio options. Gigi Salmon’s presence meant that the BBC5Live online service was the best.

In the end Eurosport carried the day. There’s a lot to be said for the common touch, with common here covering Mats Wilander’s impish levity, Frew McMillan’s measured murmur, Jason Goodall’s wryness and Chris Bowers’ tendency to channel Stefan Zweig: ‘There are times at the US Open when you wonder if the players are mere entertainment, like a string quartet at a Viennese street café.’ You said it, Chris.

Novak Djokovic has won his second Wimbledon title, three years after winning his first, and almost four hours after commencing a classically sinuous final in which triumph and disaster always lurked equally near. In the end, but only in the end, Djokovic held his nerve, and prevailed over Roger Federer in five superb sets. It was the first great Major final in years, and an fitting culmination to another dramatic fortnight rich with portent.

Last year’s edition of Wimbledon gave us the first hint that the incumbent era of Big Four domination was coming to an end (with ‘era’ here used in the sporting sense to denote a period of about half a decade. ‘Generation’ and ‘epoch’ represent similarly telescoped time-frames.) Jerzy Janowicz became the first Polish man to reach a Major semifinal, and the first new Major semifinalist in three years. In New York both Stan Wawrinka and Richard Gasquet reached maiden semifinals, while in Melbourne Wawrinka was the first new Slam finalist since Tomas Berdych in 2010. Wawrinka’s subsequent Australian Open victory made him just the second man outside the Big Four to win a Major since January 2005, a period of about 1.9 generations. If an epoch isn’t shifting, something is.

Roland Garros inspired a return to reality, though even there Ernests Gulbis strained credulity by surging to the semis. The fact the hasn’t followed up on it is less surprising. By the conclusion of this latest Wimbledon, however, the indications of generational renewal have become bludgeoningly clear, even for curmudgeons determined to misread them. Nick Kyrgios reached the quarterfinals on debut, rendering him the most easily justified wildcard since Goran Ivanisevic thirteen years ago. Milos Raonic and Grigor Dimitrov reached the semifinals. Jack Sock and Vasek Pospisil overcame the Bryan brothers in a gripping five set doubles final. Ryan Harrison qualified. It almost feels Biblical.

Of course, it is only in fiction that eras conclude all at once. Convenient cataclysms are a structural cliché of all high fantasy, from TheLord of the Rings to The Wheel of Timeto the Bible, but in real life change comes gradually. Sartre was wrong about most things, but he right when he said that we never leave a place all in one go. Dimitrov and Raonic may have reached the semifinals, but they both lost, and the final featured familiar protagonists. Justifiable fears that this would guarantee yet another tedious decider were mercifully allayed. Djokovic and Federer arguably constitute the most dynamic match-up at the truly elite level (I understand this is subjective). I’ll come back to the final in a bit.

Rafael Nadal contrived to lose the first set in each of his first four matches, though only in the last of these did he lose any more than that. The go-to narrative through the early rounds was that he was ‘finding a way’ to win, an oft-chanted mantra among those fans who’re invested heavily in the Spaniard’s alleged fallibility (a category that certainly includes John McEnroe). Really the ‘way’ Nadal found was a well-worn path. By any measure he was a better tennis player than each of his opponents, and after a patchy first set he started to play like it. Simultaneously the guy across the net felt his own erstwhile brilliance dim. Recent history has proved that the Spaniard is vulnerable on first-week grass (not only at Wimbledon), but exploiting this requires an aggressive player who doesn’t stop missing for several hours. Martin Klizan, Lukas Rosol and Mikhail Kukushkin didn’t miss for a while (Rosol sustained it longer than the others), but eventually Nadal’s class won out.

I can’t imagine anyone had realistically expected that the exception – the shocking exception – would be young Kyrgios, who’d only earned a shot at Nadal by saving nine match points against the cosmically fallible Richard Gasquet. (Perhaps I’m wrong – I’ve spent the last two weeks in the jungle with no more than a dribble of internet and a satellite TV feed. This meant I missed Channel 7’s coverage, and was thus spared John Newcombe’s deranged patriotism, though it did leave me at the mercy of McEnroe.) By beating Nadal in the fourth round Kyrgios became the first teenager to reach the Wimbledon quarterfinals in three whole years.

Comparisons between Kyrgios and Bernard Tomic naturally proliferated, and not to Tomic’s advantage. Of course it is only here in Australia that the ensuing discussion blossomed into a matter of national identity. Kyrgios is held to embody those values that we as a country hold dear: steadfastness, never-give-up-ness, staying-true-to-oneself-ness, the ANZAC spirit, arrogant humility (or humble arrogance), love of Vegemite, and a selection of other values that are basically interchangeable with those of every other country. Some have even argued that Kyrgios’ success will be the making of Tomic, since it will lighten the onus of national expectation. It won’t stop him having a dickhead for a father, though. I imagine the few Australians who care will be merely pleased to have someone new upon whom to ladle their hopes.

Speaking of which, Lleyton Hewitt once more demonstrated a delicate capacity for irony, declaring how ‘extremely well’ he was hitting the ball in practice as a prelude to losing to a guy who hits the ball extremely well in match-play. Janowicz was the ‘tremendous ball-striker’ on this occasion, though he struck the ball somewhat less tremendously in the next round, losing in five sets to Tommy Robredo. The Pole thus jettisoned most of the points he amassed in last year’s semifinal run, pushing his ranking out beyond the top fifty. On the subject of rankings, Kyrgios has soared 78 places to 66. He’ll surely climb higher, hopefully dragging Tomic along in his wake.

Andy Murray, on the other hand, has fallen to number ten, his lowest ranking in six years. His Wimbledon title defence petered out in the quarterfinals with a dispiriting loss to Dimitrov, continuing a trend of ignominious exits at Majors. Three of Murray’s last four losses at this level have been in straight sets, and he only won a set in Melbourne when Federer checked out for a while. Injury and subsequent surgery of course played its part, but Murray has been back on the tour for some time now. There are those who return from extended injury breaks unchanged or even improved, but I worry that Murray won’t be one of them. Instead, like Nikolay Davydenko or Magnus Norman, it appears as though something vital went missing. He still bosses around lesser players, to the extent that he can drive through an open draw – as happened in Paris – but against the best he can look frankly uncompetitive. Dimitrov now outranks Murray, and in their quarterfinal he played like it. He was actually toying with the Scot at times.

Unlike Murray, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga cannot blame a chronic back injury – let alone surgery – yet he too increasingly looks overmatched by top class opponents. The Frenchman bluffed and bullied his way through the initial rounds, only to become one of the least problematic parts of Djokovic’s title run. There was a time when Tsonga had a strong winning record against the Serb. Djokovic was a different player then, I suppose, but so was Tsonga. Berdych’s loss to Marin Cilic was altogether more surprising, and as it transpired, controversial. Both combined for the latest finish for a match in Wimbledon history (not including matches played under the roof) which turned out not to be a record either man was particularly interested in breaking. Dull gloom had wholly enveloped the court by about 5/5 in the final set, and saner parties began to entreat the umpire to suspend play. The officials remained unmoved, pointing out that our distant ancestors hunted antelope on the African plains by night. The subsequent tiebreak was about as skilful as top class tennis played in darkness can be. We now know that Cilic is better at this than Berdych. A man for all conditions, he followed this up by taking Djokovic to five sets in broad daylight. From two sets to one down, Djokovic found a way.

From two sets to one up on Dimitrov, he even found a way to win the fourth set, thus obviating the need for a fifth. The Bulgarian had a handful of points to force a decider, including some on serve, but alas couldn’t make them stick. He otherwise rag-dolled himself about the court with great élan, as did Djokovic, and often at the same time. A few points ended with both men prostrate, leaving no doubt as to their commitment, though questions linger over their footwear. Dimitrov is still mightily inconsistent – in an earlier round he was lucky to survive the even less consistent Alexandr Dolgopolov – but he has lately arrived at a game style with just enough structure that his frequent moments of brilliance coalesce into meaningful results. I won’t deny that Roger Rasheed has been pivotal. I’ve historically given Rasheed a pretty hard time, but only for the nonsense he utters: I’ve never doubted his ability to extract results from the kind of talent hitherto held back by a lack of discipline. Since teaming up with Rasheed, Dimitrov has won titles on hardcourt (indoor and outdoor), clay and grass, and has now reached the semifinals of the world’s premier tennis tournament. He is ranked number nine, the youngest man in the top ten.

Raonic is only five months older, and along with Eugenie Bouchard ensured this edition of Wimbledon would be especially unforgettable for Canada. Raonic has risen to number six, though this seems rather high given how easily he was handled by Federer in the semifinals. As with Dimitrov, it seems the choice of coach was decisive, in this case Ivan Ljubicic. The fearsome serve has lately been augmented by a far more rounded and aggressive ground game. This enabled him to sail through tricky previous rounds against Kei Nishikori – a match I’d believed the Japanese man would win – and Kyrgios. Sadly Raonic’s return-game remains inadequate, and in the semifinal he barely troubled Federer’s serve. His own serve was nearly impregnable but for a fatal lapse in each of the three sets, at which point he was duly broken. Federer learned long ago how to navigate encounters like this.

It is startling to realise that this was only the second time Federer and Djokovic have met in a Major final – the other being the 2007 US Open – especially when we consider that they have played 12 times at this level, including nine semifinals. The reasons for this are most structural, and according to some downright shady. The Federer-Nadal duopoly at the top of the rankings forced Djokovic to endure an arduous apprenticeship at number three, and for whatever sinister reason he was almost always drawn in Federer’s half. There was apparently a conspiracy, though its goals were unclear. Apparently these goals have been attained, or abandoned.

Djokovic was the better player through the first set, or at any rate was holding more comfortably. Federer nonetheless won the tiebreak, and might have won another in the second set had Djokovic not spoiled it by breaking early and then gradually serving out the set. It was only the second time in the tournament Federer had been broken (he dropped serve to Stan Wawrinka in the quarterfinals). The tennis was brisk and fascinating, with stylistic contrast provided by Federer’s inclination to charge the net and Djokovic’s perfect willingness to go on passing him. The longest rally in the entire match was only 23 strokes, and it was very rare for any point to exceed ten. As ever, I was impressed by Djokovic’s adaptability. When facing Federer he stands up on the baseline and matches the Swiss champion’s intensity, going stroke for stroke, and winner for winner.

Indeed, today he more than matched Federer from the ground, amassing about three times as many forehand winners. Federer for his part hardly bothered to aim his first serves anywhere but at the lines, and finished with 29 aces. The third set ticked along metronomically on serve, notwithstanding a few dicey cross-rhythms introduced at the end. Once into the tiebreak Djokovic steadied, while Federer embarked on a poly-rhythmic spree of errors. In the fourth Djokovic emerged from a mid-set flurry of each-way breaks holding a 5/2 lead. Federer held for 5/3. Djokovic stepped up to serve for the championship, but not well. His ballooned forehand error on the first point signalled the momentum switch. The Serb receded and Federer surged: breaking back, and saving a championship point in his next service game. By 5/5 Djokovic had comprehensively fallen apart, and was broken once more amidst a flurry of mistakes. Federer held comfortably to claim his fifth straight game. The match was poised at two sets apiece – the first five set Wimbledon final in five years.

Anticipating the heavy toil ahead, Djokovic availed himself of an extended toilet break, while Federer lounged court-side. Idle-handed BBC cameramen swept the crowd for stray celebrities, alighting frequently on Victoria Beckham, who looked neither pleased nor remotely curious about what was happening. Kate Winslet, Hugh Jackman and Orlando Bloom all seemed happier to be there. Federer didn’t drop a point on serve through his first three service games of the fifth set, implying he’d retained momentum. One doubted whether this streak could last against a returner of Djokovic’s quality. So it proved.

In the eighth game Djokovic returned all eight serves he faced, although Federer eked out the hold for 4/4. Djokovic held comfortably, and Federer was now serving to stay in the match. In the 2012 Olympic semifinal he’d managed to do this over a dozen times on this very court, but any anxiety that they were settling in for the long haul proved unfounded. Djokovic’s returns only grew more potent, and Federer’s backhand contributed a string of unforced errors (like Sam Stosur’s biceps, Federer’s backhand boasts an independent, folkloric existence). The last of these errors came on break point, caroming from the net, and meant that Federer lost the game, the set, and the match, and therefore the 2014 Wimbledon title. More accurately, Novak Djokovic won it. He is now the first man to defeat Federer at all four Majors, although it’s conceivable this achievement wasn’t uppermost in his mind as he thrust his arms aloft, as he once again sampled the Centre Court grass, or even as he darted through the crowd to embrace his team.

Federer for his part appeared far less disappointed to receive his second runner-up plate than he did his first; his single tear was a far cry from 2008, when the loss of his Wimbledon crown reduced him to ash-hued devastation. Victory this year would have pleased him infinitely more, but at this late stage of the sport’s most distinguished career it all must mostly feel like icing. I doubt he’ll ever treat triumph and disaster the same – what professional athlete truly does? – but at least he’s learned they’re fleeting imposters. For reaching the final he returns to number three in the world, and supplants Wawrinka as the Swiss number one, a switch that might please both of them (unless it obliges Wawrinka to contest the deciding rubber of the Davis Cup final).

Djokovic returns to number one thanks to his second Wimbledon title, precisely three years after his first title propelled him to the top. Incredibly, this is the third time in five years that the Wimbledon champion has gone to number one. Of course the reality of a 52 week ranking system is that no player makes it to number one just by winning one tournament – Djokovic’s latest reascent is a testament to nine months of brilliance and toil – but it is nonetheless poetic that the world’s most prestigious event seems so pivotal. Even if it’s a nice coincidence, it helps legitimate the otherwise inscrutable rankings in the mind of the general public. (I recall my mother’s sneering disbelief when Thomas Muster made it to number one despite ‘only’ winning the French Open.)

Beyond the general public, though, I suspect that even for the players the number one ranking feels more lustrous when accompanied by the Wimbledon trophy. This is especially the case when the title was so hard won. Djokovic fought harder than anyone to reach this year’s final, all the while displaying the essential Australian qualities of steadfastness, never-give-up-ness and staying-true-to-oneself-ness, which as it happens are essential Serbian qualities too. Or perhaps they’re just intrinsic to Djokovic. As he eloquently pointed out afterwards: even after that fourth set disaster, his convictions still outweighed his doubts. His note-perfect on-court speech, delivered through a sheen of tears, made it clear that for the new number one, as for the man he’d defeated, Wimbledon still means nearly everything.

Apologies for any factual inaccuracies in this post. As I say, I’m located in a fairly isolated spot in the jungle, with very limited internet. Think Heart of Darkness with better food. This post, for example, took fifteen minutes and four attempts to upload. The horror.

The fourth round of the 2014 edition of Roland Garros is complete, thus concluding a first week that began nine days ago, and ushering a second week that will last a mere six. Structurally, the fourth round of a Grand Slam tournament acts as the interface between the first week and the second, conveniently wrapping up what has gone before whilst simultaneously preparing players and fans for the thrills to come. Structurally, then, the fourth round at this year’s French Open has fulfilled its purpose, providing a succinct summary for the largely forgettable opening rounds. Only one match lived up to its billing, while too many others lived all the way down to theirs.

The fourth round also traditionally generates the first real concentration of great matchups. Of the sixteen players remaining it’s generally a sound bet that more than half of them will be of high quality, and will thus be obliged to start playing each other. Before seedings were doubled to 32 in 2001, this was the round in which the seeded players first began to collide. Wimbledon further enhances this frisson by scheduling all eight men’s matches on the same day (weather permitting, which it seldom does).

Roland Garros has defied this tradition, however. The early rounds were riddled by upsets that proved mostly shocking for their volume and by their concentration in the draw’s top half. Kei Nishikori’s frail frame was only good for a few sets, as was Stan Wawrinka’s brain. Nicolas Almagro, afflicted both mentally and physically, fared no better. All three had only been title contenders in the minds of those Rafael Nadal fans whose fantasies of catastrophe are at right-angles to reality, but it was still a blow to have them flame out so early. Indeed, seeds were combusting all over the place – Haas, Dolgopolov, Dimitrov – with deflating consequences for the rest of the week. The best match ending up being Philipp Kohlschreiber’s agonising five set loss to Andy Murray in the third round, which concluded 12/10 in the fifth even as the bottom half of the draw had commenced its fourth round.

The draw’s bottom half held together rather better through the initial rounds, with the highest seed in each ‘eighth’ attaining the round of sixteen, whereupon he was presented with an opponent that was at least nominally worthy. Sadly, only in the case of Roger Federer and Ernests Gulbis did this result in a high-quality match, suggesting that it requires more than a lack of early round upsets to ensure a decent fourth round. It also requires a healthy dose of luck. The upshot was seven matches – I’ll come to the eighth presently – that were so unengaging that desperate commentators were required to manufacture interest on our behalf.

There was, for example, some debate as to whether Novak Djokovic’s 89 minute demolition of Jo-Wilfried Tsonga was superior to Nadal’s 93 minute dismantling of Dusan Lajovic. Djokovic got it done quicker against an ostensibly elite player enjoying local support, while Nadal conceded one less game against an opponent whose presence was largely superfluous. The answer is that it doesn’t matter. Further intrigue mounted as Nadal claimed the first seventeen points of the second set, thus coming within seven points of a golden set. (Alas, he pushed a backhand wide on the eighteenth point.) This thrashing was painted as valuable experience for the young Serb, in much same way that meeting Godzilla was valuable for Bambi. Of more value is the confidence gained from winning three other matches, increased opportunity from a higher ranking and the provisional security of a six-figure pay check.

Tsonga’s abject defeat to Djokovic was more interesting, since he is putatively a top player and last year reached the semifinal, although he didn’t acquit himself well once there. To an extent, we can simply say that Djokovic was far too good, and he was indeed very good. But there’s no use pretending that something has not gone horribly awry with Tsonga’s career. Coming in to today’s fourth round encounter Djokovic had lost to Tsonga five times, though the last of these defeats came in 2010 in what is increasingly looking like the Frenchman’s heyday. Between 2008 and 2011 Tsonga compiled a record of 24-28 against players in the top ten, even including the wilderness year of 2010. Since the beginning of 2012, however, Tsonga has compiled a record of 4-26 against players of the same rank. He is still reaching fourth rounds at the big tournaments, but for the second Slam in a row he was manhandled by the first elite player he encountered (in Melbourne it was Federer), and his poor form is looking less and less exceptional.

Tomas Berdych was as impressive as anyone in pulling apart John Isner, especially as he never allowed any set to reach a tiebreak. Indeed, no one’s form has looked more fearsome through the first week, and if he didn’t have such a keen propensity to capitulate against the either of the current top two (Nadal more so then Djokovic), you’d suspect Berdych was on the verge of a real breakthrough. He’ll face Gulbis in the quarters, to whom I’m very gradually coming. Djokovic will play Milos Raonic, who progressed to his first Major quarterfinal in fine fashion, including assured dismissals of Nick Kyrgios and Jiri Vesely (representing of the next wave of up-and-comers), Marcel Granollers (representing a subset of self-taught hackers with bafflingly high rankings), and a five set grind past Gilles Simon, which is something of a rite of passage. For his troubles he has earned a meeting with Djokovic, a quite different (and far sterner) rite of passage.

Gael Monfils’ third round five set tussle with Fabio Fognini turned out to be a Cubist masterpiece. All the fundamental elements of a professional tennis match were there, but arranged into unsettling configurations, and largely shorn of narrative linearity. It thus went exactly the way everyone thought it would. Having whetted his taste for the bizarre, Monfils displayed little patience with the relatively mundane stylishness of Guillermo Garcia-Lopez, and dispatched him with little fuss, thereby ensuring a French presence in the second week. David Ferrer beat Kevin Anderson with less ease than he did at this stage last year, but still never looked in strife. Andy Murray, having endured that classic with Kohlschreiber, surprised everyone by seeing off Fernando Verdasco in straight sets. No one expected a classic, but the respective fan bases, striving to outdo each other for pessimism, hadn’t been shy in predicting a more exhausting debacle. Anyway, having spent some time discussing the matches that I self-defeatingly suggested weren’t worth talking about, I’ll move on to the one match that is worth revisiting, namely Gulbis’ sinuous five set defeat of Federer.

Much has rightly been made of the fourth seed’s overhead at 5/3 40-15 in the second set, which, had it been properly dealt with, would have given him a two set to love lead. It wasn’t the easiest overhead – Gulbis’ stabbed response had some work on it – but nor was it so hard that Federer didn’t have multiple options. There are degrees of difficulty in all things, and tennis at this level is often decided by the player who executes the harder shot under pressure. Instead Federer went for the easiest option, and hit his overhead straight to the spot where Gulbis happened to be standing, not because the Latvian had anticipated it, but because he hadn’t bothered to move. Gulbis redirected the ball into the open court, and a match that was already serpentine coiled once more, this time decisively. Federer was broken back, and in lieu of being two sets to love up, lost three of the next twelve games to fall down two sets to one.

If only because it superficially recalls another notorious moment serving at 5/3 40-15 – the US Open semifinal of 2011 – one suspects that overhead will be a shot even Federer finds hard to forget. Certainly it stayed with him for rather too long in yesterday’s match. It would undoubtedly haunt a lesser career: I picture small children groaning as granddad again regales them with the time he was so nearly two sets to love up in the Roland Garros fourth round. In the case of Federer, alongside whose career almost all others must be considered ‘lesser’, I imagine he won’t let it ruin his Wimbledon preparation.

Still, that overhead was emblematic of a larger issue. What let Federer down all match, as it frequently has in the last few years, was a lack of audacity, or, to put it another way, an overabundance of caution. This was evident in his service placement, which was generally conservative, and in his unwillingness to go for the sidelines in baseline rallies, which often allowed Gulbis to re-establish a neutral court position, which never stayed neutral for long. There was a time when Federer’s determination to press an advantage would not relent, and initiative could only be wrested away from him by the very best defenders, such as Nadal or Djokovic. Yesterday Federer proved unable or unwilling to maintain pressure, and repeatedly allowed Gulbis to take control.

It is entirely to Gulbis’ credit that he could and did take control, and that unlike his opponent he was willing to chance his arm to sustain it. Whenever he saw an opportunity to go big, he went big. He pounded on Federer’s backhand – afterwards he confessed this to be his master plan – served big, and, most crucially, somehow remained focussed in defending the early break for the remainder of the fifth set. Federer seemed to labour under the hope that Gulbis wouldn’t be able to maintain so exalted a level. History has shown that Gulbis can tumble catastrophically off the boil, though history has also shown that history is a poor indicator for predicting what Gulbis will do. The Latvian’s form did dip in the fourth set. Federer, finally bold, lifted to a 5/2 lead, whereupon Gulbis availed himself of a medical time-out, which he later insisted was more precautionary than strategic. This had a profound effect on momentum, as Gulbis emerged swinging lustily at everything. He had no reason not to, believing the set was already gone. Where Federer had been cruising up a double break, he now narrowly eked out the fourth set, and ceded his serve rather tamely at the beginning of the fifth. From there Gulbis, who has yet to lose in France this year, never relented. He is deservedly through to his first Major quarterfinal in six years.

Federer, significantly, isn’t. Just as his victories often break or extend an obscure record, so do his losses curtail or forestall another. Had Federer won he would have reached his tenth consecutive Roland Garros quarterfinal. Alas he is stranded on nine, and might one day bore his grandchildren with the story of how he’d have reached ten but for one injudiciously placed overhead, or, more accurately, one inspired and defiant Latvian.

Novak Djokovic today won the Miami Masters for the fourth time, a mere two weeks after winning Indian Wells, thus re-establishing his pre-eminence on hardcourts just in time for the clay season, and leaving the rest of us with almost nothing new to say. Any point made after Indian Wells remains more or less true after Miami, if not more so. The finalists in California had appeared divinely favoured as all foreseeable impediments were removed from their path. In Florida the gods left even less to chance, excising the draw of likely threats by the quarterfinals, and then striking down both semifinalists before another ball was struck.

Having both semifinals decided via walkover was a deflating innovation, one that went unappreciated by the local crowd. They booed lustily at the news of Tomas Berdych’s default, although one imagines a large portion of the disapproval can be attributed to the discovery that no tickets refunds were forthcoming. Word is Berdych had a crook gut. Nishikori is notorious for withdrawals and retirements anyway, and his default grew more or less inevitable after he posted a pair of marathon upsets over David Ferrer and Roger Federer, which proved too much for his groin. The vexing hypothetical question of what would have happened had Berdych and Nishikori been drawn to face each other and then withdrawn was duly raised. Is there a rule, and if so should it be changed? This matter was addressed by Peter Fleming with devastating practicality. He pointed out that after the first guy withdraws, the second keeps his mouth shut and takes the free passage to the next round. It’s a question of whoever blinks first. Faced with Nadal and Djokovic in rampant form, however, it was probably a pretty easy decision.

And so it came down to yet another final between this pair, the seven hundred and fourteenth overall, yet, somehow, the first of this year. The hadn’t met since the final of the World Tour Finals, a best of three hardcourt match that Djokovic won quite comfortably. Today’s best-of-three hardcourt match didn’t feel functionally very different. I can only repeat what I said last time they met. Surface homogenisation has eroded the concept of surface specialists, but not entirely. At their best, Nadal is still better on clay and Djokovic is better on a hardcourt. Today Nadal wasn’t really at his peak, but that was mostly thanks to Djokovic, who was.

The only vaguely fraught moment came early in the first set, when Djokovic fended off a break point, although it was early enough that he would have fancied his chances to break back. As it happened, he didn’t need to, and set about running the Spaniard hither and yon beneath the Miami sun. The air was presumably as thick up Djokovic’s end of the court, but he seemed to be moving more easily through it, and his shots certainly penetrated it more readily. His crosscourt backhand was particularly dangerous. Djokovic’s technical excellence is such that when he is playing this well it’s hard to believe he cannot go on playing like this indefinitely, in stark contrast to the million moving parts of Nadal’s technique, which seems mostly miraculous in that it doesn’t desynchronise more. Today even Djokovic’s rare errors looked purposeful.

Nadal was broken at the start of the second set, and thereafter the only tension seemed to accrue in his following service games, as he grimly held on to remain only one break behind. Djokovic was typically marvellous on return. Has anyone ever been so good at consistently landing returns within a foot of the baseline? Nadal won only 59% of first serve points for the match. He tried at various points to get the crowd into it, with some success, but it didn’t affect the outcome. A fine final point saw them both finish up at the net, though Djokovic was the one who collapsed in triumph. He sprang up soon enough, and shared a handshake and hug combo with Nadal that lacked many outward signs of warmth. The world number one looked like he really didn’t want to hang around.

Fortunately he didn’t have to, since the trophy ceremony was abbreviated for American television. No doubt there was some pressing commitment to broadcast amateur sport played by university students. There were the usual bubbles, confetti and crystal trophies, and that was that. Sky Sports had nowhere else to be, though. Annabel Croft asked Djokovic whether at a certain point today he could feel that he’d broken Nadal’s spirit. ‘Of course,’ responded the champion, and began to riff on the concept of confidence from a position of plenty. He was probably justified in feeling a little cocky.

The imperious manner in which Djokovic smothers and thereby neutralises those parts of Nadal’s game that have tormented the tour for a decade have been amply catalogued, although there have been few occasions in which the Serb has showcased it better. One such was the first set of last year’s Monte Carlo final, which Sky Sports handily demonstrated by showing highlights of after today’s final. Network programmers have learned to set aside at least four hours for any best-of-three match between Nadal and Djokovic. When today’s final concluded in a mere 83 minutes, there was time to kill, and Greg Rusedski – mercifully – can only go on for so long.

Djokovic and Nadal between them now hold all nine Masters 1000 events, as well at the World Tour Finals and two of the four Majors. If this isn’t unprecedented, it’s awfully close. (In 2006 Federer and Nadal held all four Majors, the Tennis Masters Cup and six of the nine Masters. I’ll leave it to others to rank these achievements.) Six of the nine Masters 1000 events are played back-to-back, in three groups of two. It has almost grown commonplace for a single player to grab a pair. Last year Nadal won Madrid and Rome in consecutive weeks, and Canada and Cincinnati. In 2011 Djokovic won Indian Wells and Miami consecutively, as well as Madrid-Rome. This doesn’t speak to the modesty of the achievement, but to the high quality of the players achieving it. Winning two of these things in a row – especially Indian Wells and Miami with their absurd 96 draws, abrupt shift from desert to swamp, and over-reliance on Kiss-Cam – is still a mighty accomplishment.

Overall, it is Djokovic’s eighteenth Masters title, which puts him one clear of Andre Agassi at third on the all-time winner list, trailing only Nadal and Federer. Speaking of Federer, the Swiss has returned to the top four, while David Ferrer by failing to defend his runner-up points has fallen to number six, which should hopefully ensure a few more balanced draws in the coming months. Andy Murray, who was defending champion but lost early, has fallen to number eight. Nadal remains at number one, though his margin has been more than halved in recent weeks. Djokovic, champion in Indian Wells and now Miami, is right on his heels.

Novak Djokovic has won the 2014 Indian Wells Masters, embedding himself even more firmly in that group of men who’re able to generate endless copy thanks to their records alone. With the great champions, it gets to a point where you can find yourself just going on about the numbers. Arguably the greatest of these was across the net for today’s final, and looked for a time as though he would be the man to triumph again, thus incrementally improving many of the various records he already owns. In the end, but only in the end, Djokovic held off the resurgent Roger Federer to claim his third consecutive Masters 1000 title, going back through the Paris Indoors and Shanghai last year. It is also his third Indian Wells title, and seventeenth Masters title overall, and places him equal-third with Andre Agassi on the all-time leader board. As I say, eventually the numbers speak for themselves.

Aside from the final, the story of the tournament was surely Alexandr Dolgopolov. He startled everyone by beating Rafael Nadal in a third set tiebreaker, then delivered an arguably more profound shock by not going down meekly in the following round. I have no statistics to hand, but it has become standard practice to follow up a stunning upset with a dismal loss. Ever the iconoclast, Dolgopolov continued to outpace custom by handily upending Fabio Fognini and Milos Raonic, both in straight sets. Custom finally caught up with him in his first Masters semifinal, when the shreds he was blown to by Federer’s artillery whipped fitfully in the insistent breeze. Nevertheless, the Ukrainian’s ranking has risen from No.31 to No.23, with almost nothing to defend for the foreseeable future. Higher seedings beckon, but he’ll always be a dangerous floater. Being Dolgopolov, there’s no sound reason to believe that three strong tournaments in a row and a win over Nadal necessarily means anything has changed. All in all, enjoy him for what he is worth, for you’ll rarely see his like.

Reaching the final guaranteed Federer’s re-ascent to the top five, while a victory in the final would have enabled him to leap over David Ferrer into the top four. Alas, he lost, and languishes about a hundred points adrift. The odds are strong that he will return sooner rather than later, however, a point Barry Cowan laboured exhaustively. Ferrer has finalist points to defend in Miami next week, and one doubts, given his injuries, whether his defence will be sufficiently stout to prevent a tumble from the elite group. Federer didn’t play Miami last year, and thus would likely return to the top four even if he skipped it again this year, an amusing yet not especially significant quirk of the fifty-two week ranking system.

Andy Murray, currently ranked at number six, will seek to defend the Miami title. After yet another disappointing performance at Indian Wells – he fell to Raonic with all due fuss – it would be easy enough to insist the Scot won’t fare any better in Miami than Ferrer. But there’s just no knowing what Murray will do at the moment. At least his perennially execrable level in California no longer presages similar form in Florida. All that is certain is that his return from surgery has been less smooth than had been anticipated. With the clay season about to commence, now would be a good time to give up expecting too much for a while. Let any strong results be a pleasant surprise. Come Wimbledon there’ll be ample opportunity to pile the pressure back on.

There was a time when John Isner was considered to be his nation’s sturdiest hope on clay, based largely on a few strong Davis Cup performances and once taking Nadal to five sets at Roland Garros. This probably revealed more about America’s bleak chances on dirt than anything about Isner’s actually prowess (as an Australian I’m hardly crowing from the high ground). Indian Wells, however, seems to suit him well. Mechanically, it’s no stretch to see why. The thin air and grippy surface combine to render one of the sport’s mightiest weapons if anything more potent: it cuts through the air faster, and explodes off the surface. The desperate home crowd support certainly doesn’t hurt, as opposed to Miami, where North American players come a distant second to South American ones. Nor does the best-of-three format hurt, which limits the opportunities for Isner to indulge in his self-defeating passion for endless exertion.

Still, the stark spectre of impending national irrelevance haunts the US men at every home tournament these days. They (and therefore we) are constantly reminded that for the first time no US male might, say, make it to the third round, or be seeded, or ranked in the top twenty. (Again, it’s a wide trail the Australian men blazed years ago.) It usually falls to Isner to save the day, and often he does. Once the smoke has cleared, and Ryan Harrison has provided a meticulous explanation for his latest early round loss, Isner is generally the last one towering, toiling away, interleaving all-American service games with a return style so passive it induces Gilles Simon to yawn. He’s a mystery. Sometimes he perks up and blasts a few big forehand returns, but never for long. Djokovic was less than thrilled when Isner pulled this trick several times as the Serb tried to serve out their semifinal yesterday. Isner then tore through the second set tiebreak, briefly twitterpating the locals. Djokovic only had himself to blame. Once he’d finished admonishing himself he pushed through the third set without hassle. Djokovic hasn’t played well all week, but he has been very good at maintaining his equilibrium. This more than anything is probably why he’s the one hoisting the trophy.

Calmness was fundamental again today in the key moments. There were the usual assortment of bellows, exultant or frustrated as the situation allowed, but when the match coiled tightest he was a picture of equanimity. After a patchy first set, in which Federer played all over him, Djokovic tightened his game up considerably in the second set, doubtless in the hope that if he hung around long enough something fruitful might eventuate. He was rewarded by a poor service game from Federer at 3/4, broke, and then served out the set. He broke early in the third set when Federer’s forehand went momentarily haywire, and rode that almost until the end. As with Isner in the semifinal, however, Djokovic was broken while serving for the match, this time at 5/4. If he erred in this case, though, it was only in attempting greater margin. Federer put together his finest return game of the match, broke lustily to 15, and then held once more to love. From 3/5, he’d won fifteen of sixteen points. Djokovic must have been at least a little rattled, but maintained his composure beautifully, and, vitally, held comfortably for the tiebreak.

There was a reasonable hope that what had thus far been a fine and dramatic final might conclude with a fine and dramatic breaker, but this turned out to be one reasonable hope too many. The game whereby Djokovic had held for 6/6 usefully snapped Federer’s momentum, and the Swiss was never to regain it. Djokovic meanwhile confined his mood to that narrow band between over-attentiveness and exuberance, and made a virtue out of simply executing the shots he was meant to. The match ended with a weak pair of Federer errors, the first of which put them level on 98 points apiece, the second of which put Djokovic ahead. Statistically it was a terrifically close match – both had even winner / error ratios, served in the mid-sixties and produced six aces – but it was Djokovic who won two sets to one.

Both spoke graciously on the dais. Federer broke new ground by praising the camera operators. Perhaps he was impressed by the new ‘FreeD’ images, although one doubts he was half as impressed as the commentators. I haven’t heard Robbie Koenig sound so enthusiastic since they began measuring the RPMs on Nadal’s forehand. Federer also admitted he was overall pretty pleased with his own form. As exciting as his third set resurgence was today, his resurgence across the first few months of 2014 has mattered more, especially given his poor 2013. Greg Rusedski suggested Federer might be intending to peak for Roland Garros and Wimbledon. It’s the kind of thing Rusedski is for some reason paid to say.

Djokovic for his part conceded that it was ‘an incredible match – an incredibly difficult match’. For all that it cleaved to the usual format – with Federer leaping out early and Djokovic gradually reeling him back – the subtleties and contrasts inherent to the match-up as ever inspired some great tennis. I find it to be the most consistently interesting of the elite rivalries (others will certainly disagree). Djokovic plays Federer differently to how he plays just about everyone else, which is a testament to his versatility, as is the fact that, despite never consistently playing at his highest level, he is once against the Indian Wells champion.

In spite of Indian Wells’ remote desert location, today’s order of play promised the most fertile day’s tennis in weeks. Enticing match-ups threatened to bloom across three stadium courts, assuming they were provided with sufficient light and care. Alas, what began with promise finished up as a salutary lesson in being careful what you wish for. By and large, even those matches that did flower gave forth fetid blooms. It wasn’t the conditions, since those were perfect. It was mostly an issue of over-fertilisation.

(5) Murray d. Vesely, 6/7 6/4 6/4

Things got off to a noisome start on Stadium 2, as Andy Murray and Jiri Vesely set about establishing the heroically excremental tone that would saturate the day. Murray generally struggles at Indian Wells, although one strives in vain to tease a common element out of his various losses. Last year provided a relatively green patch, as he reached the quarterfinals before falling to Juan Martin del Potro. Two years ago he lost his opening match to a rampant Guillermo Garcia-Lopez. The year before that he fell in the same round, losing with dismal single-mindedness to Donald Young.

Today Murray appeared less committed to losing. At times, particularly at the commencement and the conclusion of the match, it almost looked like he wanted to win. He led by a couple of breaks in the opening set, although these didn’t take root, and Vesely climbed back to take it in a tiebreak. The Czech led by a break in the second set, but found creative ways to hand it back. Much the same thing happened in the third set, thereby providing Vesely with a ‘valuable learning experience’. Being young and impetuous, he’ll probably appreciate the lesson less than a win.

Murray was through, but sounded more chagrined than elated. ‘The quality of tennis was not great,’ he remarked, echoing Portia. Indeed not: it droppeth as a gentle rain of sparrow crap from heaven, upon the place beneath, forming a slick grey film that coated the balls and got into everything. Murray showed himself to be a keen student of understatement: ‘It was an ugly match with no real rhythm – neither of us played well at the same time . . .’

Sky Sports, turd-polishers par excellence, again proved themselves adept at overstatement, insisting that the match had ‘had everything’, and had been a showcase for Murray’s ‘champion qualities.’ Statistics don’t always tell the full story, but sometimes they refute the wrong one. In this case they tallied well with the visual evidence, which consisted of a densely compacted trash-cube of crucial double faults, jittery errors, dozens of break points, sub-par serving and vehement self-excoriation. The soft patter of sparrow dung was soon drowned out by a downpour of clichés. The BBC had it that Murray both dug deep and survived a scare, in much the same way that a stranded hiker will excavate a foxhole to ward off exposure. Robbie Koenig chimed in to the effect that champions find a way, but failed to mention that the way in this case was a dung-slimed path paved with his opponent’s double faults. Still, lesser players have gotten lost.

(7) Federer d. (27) Tursonov, 7/6 7/6

Even as Murray and Vesely braided the clean desert air into ropes of ordure, Federer and Tursonov were providing a rather better spectacle on the main stadium, although this isn’t saying much. Federer led by a break in the first set, and served for it, but forfeited the advantage and slunk to a tiebreak, which he narrowly won. Tursonov surged into an early break in the second, then immediately reversed out of it. Another tiebreak hove into view. Both men were playing decently, and sometimes well – there will always be winners and bold moves forward with this pair – but rarely at the same time. Federer took the second tiebreak quite comfortably, and that was that. It is Federer’s eight victory in a row, and he’ll next face Tommy Haas.

(13) Fognini d. (23) Monfils, 6/2 3/6 7/5

By this time Stadium 2 had been attended to by a bio-hazard crew armed with fire hoses, although nothing could quite scour clean the noxious vibe. Into this cauldron of bad faith and broken dreams ambled Fabio Fognini and Gael Monfils, unequalled masters at the art of transfiguring beauty into dross, and then back again as fancy strikes them. (Monfils, with Gilles Simon, once rendered Hisense Arena all but unusable for weeks.) Initially it was a surprising match, in that the higher-ranked Fognini quickly set about building a commanding lead, much as a normal tennis player might. There were a few characteristic flourishes towards the end as he blew a handful of set points, but overall it was a disappointingly assured performance.

Monfils predictably roared back in the second, and maintained his momentum into the third. This was more like it. The Frenchman eventually served for the match at 5/4, threw in a double-fault on match point, and then another two points later to be broken. Fognini was now in his element. ‘Quite incredible’ remarked Koenig conversationally, for form’s sake. His uncharacteristically sedate tone suggested it was anything but incredible. If he was conserving his larynx for the tiebreak, he needn’t have bothered: Fognini held, and then, via a sequence of soft Monfils errors, broke to love to take the match. It was anticlimactic, but only if you were expecting a climax.

(3) Wawrinka d. (29) Seppi, 6/0 6/2

Dramatic matches can grow burnished with time, regardless of their actual quality. Stanislas Wawrinka and Andreas Seppi fought out a memorably awful match in Rome two years ago, with the Italian eventually saving half a dozen match points. (Venue and personnel count for a lot. Seppi was an Italian playing on Petrangeli, one of the great tennis courts of the world, before a partisan crowd always eager to give itself to frenzy. The fact that the match was a timorous, leaden-handed disaster hardly matters. Indian Wells, for all its new money and self-proclaimed status as a fifth-slam, lacks that kind of cache, and certainly lacks a local crowd as committed to lunacy.) There was little chance they’d reprise that match today; Seppi isn’t quite the same player he was, while Wawrinka is now a Major champion and playing like it. That’s pretty much how it played out. Wawrinka triumphed 6/0 6/2 in under fifty minutes, the kind of performance we’ve learned to expect from a Swiss number one.

(28) Dolgopolov d. (1) Nadal, 6/3 3/6 7/6

While Kevin Anderson gradually dug himself a deep foxhole against Evgeny Donskoy, Rafael Nadal and Alexandr Dolgopolov made their way onto Stadium One for what was fated to be the match of the day. So far this year Wawrinka is the only man to defeat Nadal, a result that was especially surprising given the Swiss had never won so much as a set from the Spaniard before that. Dolgopolov also hadn’t won a set from Nadal, although the last set they’d played – a tiebreaker in the Rio final a few weeks ago – was the closest he’d come. There was some hope that he was finally due – this was not a hope officially sanctioned by Nadal’s fan base – although I doubt whether anyone seriously believed the Ukrainian would manage to win two sets. Victory appeared unlikely.

The opening salvoes did little to convince otherwise, though they also suggested that neither man particularly covets his own serve. Breaks came and went, as did Dolgopolov’s challenges. He had none left after two and a half games. The breaks soon gave way to holds, but for one last surge from Dolgopolov. He saw out his first ever set over Nadal with nary a trace of nerves, his first serve percentage soaring into the high thirties. Indeed, it was the kind of nervelessly virtuosic performance that Dolgopolov is notorious for; flat, bold hitting, painting the lines and exposing Nadal’s forehand corner with uncounterable crosscourt backhand drives, timed exquisitely. The Spanish commentators, models of objectivity, took to declaiming ‘afortunado‘ after Dolgopolov’s better points. One assumes they were referring to themselves, and simply felt lucky to be witnessing the Ukrainian in full flight.

It was also the kind of tennis Dolgopolov notoriously cannot sustain. Nadal turned it around in the second set, mostly by tightening up his groundstrokes (length was an issue in the first set), and muscling his opponent around and off the court. When he took the set 6/3 it seemed as though routine patterns had been re-established, and equally clear that he’d go on with it. Somehow, though, he didn’t. Dolgopolov, slave to the mad clockwork in his brain, began to hit out again, and broke. From 5/2 up, however, he began to hit out in earnest – often metres out – while Nadal refused to miss.

Dolgopolov, inspired by Monfils, broke himself to love in lieu of serving out a famous upset, thus convincing at least one onlooker that the match was essentially over. It was a mercy when he held serve and forced a tiebreak, and a miracle when he kept the breaker close. The score flopped around listlessly for a while, mostly due to Nadal’s unwillingness to sustain a lead. A disastrous forehand approach by the Spaniard at 5/5 permitted Dolgopolov a match point, which he took with an ace. Nadal challenged. Hawkeye, having finally achieved sentience on the worst of all days, caught the prevailing mood perfectly and decided Dolgopolov’s serve had missed by a few millimetres. The miracle here was that Dolgopolov maintained his composure, made no complaint, landed the second serve, and then assembled an excellent point. It turned out he could win two sets, and thus a match. He looked ecstatic, and his father overwhelmed. Nadal afterwards proffered no excuse beyond a gracious concession that his opponent had played better. And with that, the defending champion is out. Whether it was a bold, fragrant upset or a hillock of crap is, naturally, a matter of perspective, just like the day itself.

This new volume features what I consider to be the best tennis pieces I have written in the last three seasons. There are about fifty of these. There’s also a fairly long introduction, in which I essay a general explanation for the term ‘tennis criticism’, lash into the unacceptably poor standard of so much current tennis writing, and declare that Mikhail Youzhny will win this year’s US Open.

Taken from the Introduction:

While I have attempted to choose only the best pieces, I have also been guided by a sense of variety. It wouldn’t do if all the selections happened to fall during a particular tournament or all focussed on a single player. Given that I find certain tournaments and players inherently more rewarding to write about, this was a very real concern. Tomas Berdych, for example, features frequently, while Juan Martin del Potro features hardly ever. This doesn’t reflect any personal preference for the Czech over the Argentine. Indeed, I’ve always felt sympathetic towards del Potro, while Berdych was a taste laboriously acquired. I used to have great fun thinking up new ways to suggest he was a robot. Given Berdych’s new-found humanity, I could no doubt mount a persuasive argument that he is a more inherently literary character. But it’s probably just a coincidence. I quite like Andy Murray, a very literary character, but he doesn’t feature much, either. I urge you not to read too much into it. My articles aren’t Michelin stars.

My intention is that the pieces in this volume represent the best that I can do, within the broad limits of theme and chronology outlined above. It therefore follows that any pieces that I feel merit improvement should therefore be improved. Admittedly that was also my intention when I wrote them the first time. The difference is that the original pieces were written in a tearing hurry, which is not the ideal way to produce anything. Astute readers will soon discover that many of the pieces in this volume have changed from their original incarnations. The truth is all of them were revised to some extent. In some cases this entailed just a nip or tuck here and there. In other cases the changes were substantial. Some of the pieces were heavily cut, others were lengthened. In a few cases two adjacent articles were combined into one. All up, I’m satisfied there’s more than enough new material to justify the modest asking price ($5.99 US).

Long-time readers will perhaps raise an eyebrow at some of the inclusions, and will certainly quibble at some of the omissions. Nadal fans, for example, might wonder why my article on the 2013 Madrid final didn’t make the cut (sorry Miri). I can say that it was in contention, but ultimately couldn’t justify its place next to the Rome final recap from the following week. There were about dozen pieces that nearly made it in, and some were in until late in the editing process. The Luck of the Draw from last year’s Australian Open was cut only a few days ago. Ultimately I couldn’t ask a satisfying first half to compensate for a flat ending.

The Next Point: Selected Tennis Criticism 2011 – 2013 is currently available from the following outlets:

Amazon (Kindle’s .mobi format). For those who aren’t aware, there is a free Kindle app that enables you to read Kindle ebooks on Apple and Android devices (probably Windows, too);

I also intend to do a small print run, though how small will depend on the level of interest. Plenty of people who knew of this project as it progressed have expressed a desire to own a physical copy. If you’d like one, too, please let me know. Bear in mind that it will cost significantly more than ebook versions, to cover printing costs and shipping.

I’d like to thank all those who contributed their time, energy and expertise in preparing this volume, especially Alexandra. And as always my everlasting love and gratitude go to Kate, Sabine and Elias, who believes with all his heart that he and Novak Djokovic will one day be best friends.

The Next Point is a site devoted entirely to in-depth analysis of men’s tennis. I’d tell you to think of it as a men’s tennis blog, but, realistically, the trick will be to get you to think of it as anything else.Read more...

The Best of The Next Point

This collection includes the finest articles from The Next Point, carefully selected, re-edited and in some cases substantially rewritten, with a new introduction. This is some of the finest sports writing you'll find anywhere.Read More ...